The Small Things (& Other Stories)
by Leafenclaw
Summary: Sometimes it's a teacup, shattered then repaired. Sometimes it's a pair of handmade socks. And sometimes it's a smiling face drawn on a wall in blood. Small things to make you smile, laugh, cry – separately, or all at once. (Collection of miscellaneous one-shots, rating for individual stories specified inside.)
1. The Small Things (RJxLM, PJxLM, PJxTL)

_**Disclaimer: Red John is a monster, and he belongs to Bruno Heller.**_

 **A/N:** Currently in a funk over the next chapter of Kindred, and needed to get this out of my head so I can go back to playing with Lisbon's family. Hope you enjoy this character study in three acts.

 **Rating:** T bordering on M, depending on your personal sensitivities

 **Pairings:** Red John/Lorelei, Lorelei/Jane, Jane/Lisbon

 **Warnings:** Emotionally abusive relationship, brief mention of the canon killing of a character, consensual BDSM play elements (but in the context of abuse), and well – basically, everything Red John? I feel like he deserves his own personal warning.

* * *

 **The Small Things**

This is not a love story.

She doesn't delude herself. This thing between them was always meant to be a business transaction – cold, dispassionate, deliberate. He uses her, and allows her to pick up what he leaves behind. She lets herself be used, and salvages from him everything she can.

(Perhaps it used to be different – perhaps when they met, all those years ago, she used to pretend his smiles were genuine, his eyes warm when directed at her. But that was before her life collapsed in blood and iron and anguish, before she learned that being alone was being invulnerable.)

They will never be equals. His intellect makes him unreachable, as distant as the sun of a far-away galaxy – the depth and brilliance of which she, from so far below, can only barely grasp.

They will never be equals, because he knows no equal. But being at his feet and looking up, she thinks, isn't such a bad place to be.

(Sometimes in the secret of her soul, she believes he sees the Other as an equal – that it scares him, this inverted image of himself. But of course she never says a word. She may not be as clever as he is but she's not _stupid_ either, and far too cautious to voice such a statement.)

"Teach me," she asks sometimes, and sometimes he does.

But most times, he raises his eyebrows and turns his back on her, waiting for her to scramble behind him and learn by herself. So she runs after him and walks in his footsteps and sometimes stumbles on concepts she was meant to find in his wake – faith and devotion and sacrifice, things she can learn from him, things he could never teach her.

"Did I do good?" she asks sometimes, and sometimes he gives an answer – never the one she expects, never the one she wishes for, never the same words twice.

Most of the time he smiles coldly, and she's left to divine the answer by herself.

("Do you trust me?" he asks sometimes, and of course she wouldn't dare say anything but yes.)

He likes to express his satisfaction with extravagance.

One night, he uses her as look-out. She doesn't say a word as he kidnaps a man, hypnotises an ex-lover of his, and leaves them both broken for the Other to find – silently and efficiently carries his every command as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

She comes back home in the morning to find her bed covered in toys – knives and candles and ropes and blindfolds, him suddenly by her side, grinning sharply. They play, harsh and raw and _real_ – and she hurts, and she _feels_ , and he delights in her pain and screams.

"Good girl," he whispers, leaving her breathless and helplessly open to him.

The next evening, he whisks her away from the city, to a remote location where she can heal, quench her thirst for him and let him gorge himself on her body. They play some more, and when they're both exhausted, filled to the rim with each other, he laughs again.

"You will be the perfect gift," he decides, and it sends a pang the magnitude of an earthquake through her heart, makes her eyes water from the terrible honour of his trust.

He doesn't stay – he never stays – but it doesn't matter. He replaced enough of her with himself, dominating her mind and soul, that she doesn't need a physical connection to feel him close anymore. And when he leaves her bleeding on the moonlit mattress, alone to find her way back to the city, she stands up and walks on broken feet, aching with the desire to make him proud, because –

– because of the way his eyes gleam wicked when he smiles. The way he hums content over a warm cup of tea. The way he sighs sated against her body, seconds before hurting her again.

Because he uses grand gestures and showmanship to make himself larger than life, but the small things are what really get to her.

(They are not in love, but she does love him. Unconditionally.)

* * *

Theirs is not a love story.

They fall into this eyes wide open. It was obvious from the start – no delusion possible. They were always meant to use each other, cold and deliberate, both players and pawns in this terrible game they chose for themselves.

(They never had any choice, either.)

In this, they are equals.

She comes to him with sympathy and chicken soup – he comes to her drunk and sweetly broken. They do this with calculated abandon, dangling dreams and promises of blissful oblivion on a string – a bait too tasty to pass up.

She knows what he needs, and she offers herself tender and compassionate – he knows what she needs, and he takes her rough and breathless.

Still.

She closes her eyes, and pretends he's Him.

Still.

He keeps his eyes open, and avoids thinking of Her.

(They only exist together in liminality, in the spaces where the others do not.)

They meet later on the beach, standing quiet, side by side and apart.

There are no words left between them.

Forever the Other to each other's mind – an inverted, distorted version of those they long for. Their association was always tainted by a sense of wrongness, and together they could never be balanced and completed and _home_.

Friendship had been an option, until heads and fingers came into play. It isn't possible anymore – both being so utterly loyal to opposite causes.

They only have tentative trust left, and uneasy companionship.

That will have to do.

(Then that too becomes tainted by secrets and lies, tricks and betrayal – and she could _kill him on the spot_ , until he uproots her whole world and turns it on its head, and then she doesn't know anymore.)

The last time they meet, her space shifted in this four-variables equation they embody. The game is changing – and she goes from devoted queen to rogue bishop, moving across the board with terrifying speed, so quickly he fails to follow.

She kisses him one last time, before she disappears.

She betrays him one last time, before she falls to her end.

And though her grand gestures, her showmanship are what his angry and disquiet mind remembers most easily, one day – when this will _finally finally finally_ be over – one day, it's the small things he'll remember her by.

(They were never in love with each other, but the way she once sighed fragile and vulnerable against his chest will forever haunt him.)

* * *

Theirs was never meant to be a love story.

He doesn't delude himself. When he came to her torn and raw and bleeding all those years ago, she didn't take him in out of misguided feelings of love or attraction. There must have been a dollop of pity somewhere to tip the balance – but for the most part she accurately guessed he had the potential to cause trouble, and made a rational decision to keep him close so as to harness his skills and thwart him whenever possible.

This was not meant to be anything else than a business transaction, and sometimes he still finds himself confused as to how exactly things started changing between them.

(Except, not really – his memory holds an image of her asleep at her desk, pen still in her grasp as she drools over uncompleted forms, and the tiny bubble of affection and longing bursting in his heart when he finds her in early morning. This was barely a year into knowing her.)

He used to think himself without an equal. The smartest person in the room – in _any_ room – with enough brilliance to compete with the sun. And though this still holds true, she taught him not to discount compassion, and hard work, and loyalty. Something he knew, but forgot years ago when his father loomed vicious and threatening and full of avarice.

He used to think himself without an equal, until she came around and called him friend, called him family, called him _partner_.

(The Other will never be his equal. For all his apparent cleverness, in the end he's nothing but a rabid animal.)

She never asks to be taught.

Sometimes he turns around, finds her peering over his shoulder, watching and learning without a word. There's amusement when she tries – and fails – to use them on him. There's a sense of pride under his indignation when she succeeds.

Most of the time, she uses her own ways, walks her own path to get there – and it's always a pleasure to meet her at half point, facing each other in the middle of the road with matching grins and teasing banter. Never mind that _at half point_ isn't always geometrically exact.

She never asks if she did good.

She doesn't need to be told. He still tells her, sometimes, and she rolls her eyes at him. But when he smiles, she smiles back, and when he teases her, she rolls her eyes again.

("Do you trust me?" he asks sometimes, and though the words coming out of her mouth are uneasy, her eyes are warm and always say _yes_.)

He likes to express his gratitude with extravagance.

There was a pony, once, and expensive emerald jewellery.

But though he collects her taken aback, rapt with wonder, surprised expressions like others collect pictures of kittens and rainbows, those are not gifts she keeps for herself. Those are self-serving gifts for _him_ , moments in time to revisit when he gets tired of anguish and blood and inhuman cruelty.

The gifts she keeps are those he wraps in layers of tangled ropes, webs and trickery, those he reveals only after days of hard work – those who scream and protest and curse as she handcuffs them, while he watches one step removed as satisfaction bloom onto her whole being.

"You go, girl," he whispers – and she raises her eyebrows at him, a not-quite smile on her lips before walking out chin held high, features frozen in a fierce expression that raises goosebumps on his skin.

Then again, there are other moments – underrated moments he wouldn't care for if he was the same man he used to be, before his heart was torn apart, left to bleed out cold and bare on a hard mattress under the Other's moonlit smile.

Quiet moments.

The peaceful glint of her eyes meeting his over a shared cup of ice cream.

The curious arch of her eyebrows in an old Mustang, undeterred from her questioning by his admission of missing her.

The faint surprise in her own voice as she returns the feeling.

The flickers of worry on her face as he boards an ambulance and holds a three-ways conversation with a ghost.

The generous curve of her lips as she smiles, ravishingly confident, over a handful of jelly dinosaurs.

The trust they share. Unrelated to a specific moment, but permeating them all.

And he uses grand gestures and showmanship to show his appreciation, but he's starting to realise the small things – those small things – are what really get to her.

They definitely get to him.

(They are not in love – not yet. They'll get there, eventually.)

(But they do love each other.)

(Unconditionally.)

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. =)**


	2. Kissed (PJxTL)

_**Disclaimer: The characters and settings belong to Bruno Heller. The situation belongs to Fiinalen. I'm just the messenger here.**_

 **A/N:** The prompt was: " _Lisbon's niece Annie gets smitten with Jane after he teaches her to pick pockets. Lisbon shows signs of jealousy even though there's nothing to be jealous for, which surprises and amuses Jane to no end_." Further specifications included the main action being set in season 4, barely a hint of romance, and a hopeful ending.

And so this little tag is for **Fiinalen** , who helped my very spatial-orientation-challenged self figure out the layout of the SCU floor. Thank you so much, once again, and I hope you enjoy this story.

 **Rating:** K+ / PG

 **Pairings:** Annabeth/Jane (one-sided), Jane/Lisbon

* * *

 **Kissed**

She wipes her eyes quickly. A deep breath, and she finds herself tracking the sounds of Tommy's footsteps through the busy noises from the bullpen. When the elevator door closes, so far away, she picks up her coffee mug and swallows half of it, forcing down the lump in her throat. Then she calls downstairs, fulfilling her promise to release O'Brien to him.

"He'll be okay," she mutters to herself after hanging up. "They'll be fine. Both of them."

"Of course they will. Why wouldn't they?"

She jumps in fright, nearly dropping coffee over herself.

" _Geez_ , Jane! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Making myself some tea," he answers, eyebrows raised. "Isn't that obvious?"

She grumbles something derogatory under her breath, but his attention is elsewhere already. There's something strange with him, she thinks. The peculiar blankness of his expression as he drops a tea bag in his cup, then reaches deep in the refrigerator is unsettling.

"Don't you usually put milk in your tea?" she asks.

He blinks, then frowns at the carton of cream in his hands.

"Yes, of course. How did that get here?"

She chuckles. But the smile he sends back is bland, and she goes from unsettled to worried in a heartbeat.

"Did something happen?"

"Nothing. Why do you ask?"

She frowns again. He busies himself with his cup of tea, but his hands are shaking oh-so-slightly, just enough to cause small ripples on the top of his hot beverage. When he turns away from her and puts the milk back in the refrigerator, she steals his cup.

"Hey!"

She smiles and walks to her office, shooting a small glance over her shoulder – he grins then, shakes his head ruefully, and follows.

"Stealing my tea, Lisbon? Devious of you, don't you think?" he says when she closes the door behind him.

"And _you_ are usually smoother than that. What's going on?" she asks, holding his cup of tea hostage. "Did something happen with my brother?"

"No."

"With Annabeth?"

"I think you mean _Annie_."

She rolls her eyes.

" _Annie_ ," she repeats.

He makes a half-hearted attempt to get back his tea, but she moves out of reach and glares.

"You don't get to keep things from me when it's about my family, Jane. What's going on?"

"She, uh – kissed me," he blurts out after a small hesitation.

She blinks.

 _Kissed?_

"Who kissed you?"

"Your niece."

Acutely aware of the sounds in the bullpen, she lets him take back his teacup without a word, narrows her eyes – trying to make sense of what he just said.

"Annabeth kissed you?"

He nods.

"On the lips?!"

"It was just a peck," he says, shuffling his feet guiltily. "Didn't even have time to push her away, she was already gone. I just didn't expect – you know."

"Why would she do that?"

"I – I'm not sure."

She crosses her arms on her chest and raises his eyebrows. He averts his eyes.

"She was very friendly earlier. She might, uh – "

 _She might have a crush._

The thought bothers her, though she isn't sure why.

"Well, she's a teenager," she mumbles. "She's bound to have a few lapses in judgement."

She bites her bottom lip – takes in the deep lines on his cheeks, the barely visible stubble on his chin, the rosy tint of his mouth. Trying to see what her niece saw that would give her the urge to _kiss_ him. And she cannot help but honestly admit that Jane is –

– handsome.

Attractive.

 _Kissable_.

Jane of course is reading the progression of her emotions easily, and suddenly she finds herself _angry_. With her niece, because _what was she thinking, kissing a man old enough to be her father?_ With Jane, because _why did he let a fourteen years old close enough to kiss him?_

And with herself, _because why the hell is she caring so much about it?_

It means _nothing_.

Nothing at all. Just a peck. Nothing to worry about.

 _Right?_

Jane's surprised chuckle slides down her spine like droplets of rain.

"Wait a minute, are you – Lisbon, are you jealous?"

" _Jealous?_ No."

Even to her own ears, it doesn't sound convincing – and the sudden urge to defend herself stokes her anger further.

"What am I supposed to be jealous of? You're the one who let _a minor_ kiss you!"

"I didn't _let_ her! She took me by surprise. If I _could_ have, I'd have prevented it. You know that."

"Well you're the adult, so for the record I'm still blaming you."

"It wasn't my fault!"

"I didn't say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you!"

She feels angry and confused and out of her depth – and _yes_ , maybe even a little jealous, though she couldn't pinpoint exactly _about what_ – and that he looks so completely cheered up by her outburst makes it even worse.

"Shut up," she says, turning her back on him.

"I didn't say anything!"

"Don't care. Just shut up."

She sits at her desk and shuffles uselessly her paperwork, trying to ignore him despite the weight of his gaze scanning her like a laser ray.

"Don't you have someone else to annoy?" she asks, when she cannot take the silence anymore.

He grins, rocking on his feet. She glares. His grin widens.

"Probably. See you later, Lisbon!"

She watches his retreating back with suspicion, unsure if she should be worried or grateful that he dropped the ball so easily – Jane isn't usually a man who fails to pull loose threads apart.

 _Which means he'll probably be back to bug me before the end of the day._

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head wryly, and picks up the first form on her desk to hide her reluctant smile.

 _At least he doesn't look so shaken anymore._

And if she glances one last time toward the bullpen, it's just because she wants to make sure he's okay.

Not because she wants to catch sight of him.

* * *

Still quivering inside from the earthquake of Annie's kiss, he keeps both hands around the warm cup of tea he has no intention of drinking. Ignoring Van Pelt's concerned glances is easy when he finds himself so confused – by what happened of course, but even more by his own reaction to it.

Despite his initial desire to keep faithful to Angela – _Annie, you used to call her Annie too_ , keeps whispering his treacherous mind – he has known for some time it wouldn't last. He couldn't say _when_ he knew exactly. But he _has_ known for some time now, and he also knew that the day he broke his marriage vows, the day he kissed someone again – or, as it happens, the day _someone_ kissed _him_ – it would stir up guilt and more heartache than he ever wanted to deal with.

He was prepared for that.

Or at least he was as prepared as possible, and expected the pain. It didn't disappoint – the guilt is excruciating, the least of it because the first kiss since his wife happened with a _teenager_. Even a cup of tea, even a quiet evening on his couch, even _bantering with Lisbon_ doesn't help.

Not for long, anyway.

What he didn't expect, however, is the _wrongness_ – the deep-seated feeling of longing that keeps blowing over his thoughts, the loneliness brought up to the surface by a mere brush of lips against lips.

And the whispers in his mind.

 _You used to call her Annie_.

 _You should have stopped her before she got too close_.

 _You kissed the wrong Lisbon._

That last one especially makes no sense at all, and all the sense in the world at the same time.

He should feel guilty toward his _wife_. Not his _partner_.

But how could he not?

Amidst all the confusion, the only thing that actually makes sense is Lisbon's spark of jealousy – which is why he has no explanation as for why it bewilders him so much.

He isn't blind – they've grown closer in the last year, and ever since he shot Carter they've been trying to find their footing around each other again. What he did uprooted both of their lives, turned everything upside-down and, considering, it shouldn't confound him that she would react in stronger ways to him now. In _different_ ways. That she wouldn't be able to hide her emotions as well as she used to.

So why the surprise – and moreover, why the _pleasure_ – at her reaction?

It's not as if he intends to do anything about it.

 _Well –_

He swallows, mouth dry, pushing away the memory of her bare shoulders revealed by a pink handmaiden dress – of the pouty lips made to be nibbled on, of the distressed eyebrows it wouldn't take much to picture in other settings.

– _at least not while Red John is still alive_.

Guilt washes over him, starting the cycle all over again, and – _ah_. There it is, the guilt toward his wife. Lost right in the middle of confused longings he shouldn't allow the existence of, but doesn't know how to push away.

Night falls slowly.

His co-workers leave one after the other, and the tea in his cup is freezing by the time he decides to take a sip. He gets up, walks to the kitchen with the vague intention to make himself a new one, but gets distracted as he passes Lisbon's office. She's still hard at work, even at this hour, and the sight of her chestnut hair brushing against the desk makes him warm inside.

For a moment he stays there, on the other side of the door, watching her through the glass – finding peace in the soft curve of her cheek, in the relentless scribbling of her pen.

Then she tilts her head backwards with a slight grimace, rubs her neck, and he grins.

He may not be able to drive away his own uneasiness, but at least he knows how to dispel _hers_.

* * *

"Hey," Jane says, knocking on the door. "Still hard at work, I see."

She rubs her burning eyes – tries to prepare herself to whatever he's coming up with now. But tiredness weight so heavy on her shoulders, she doesn't even have the strength to brace herself in expectation.

 _Just roll with it_.

Harder to do than say.

"What time is it?"

"Late."

 _Damn paperwork._

"I come bearing gifts," he adds, walking in. "Well, _a_ gift."

He leaves a steaming mug of coffee on her desk, staying beside her as she grabs it and takes a sip. She grimaces.

"Did you microwave it? Tastes like sludge."

" _Caffeinated_ sludge," he chuckles. "Wanted to get you a good one from upstairs, but everything is closed this time of night. Why aren't you home already?"

"I released O'Brien to Tommy earlier. Had to finish filling the forms. Didn't know there would be so many."

"Almost done?"

"Yeah. Just this one left. Thanks for the coffee – I guess."

If bad coffee is the worst he can come up with tonight, she'll consider herself lucky.

She fills the last sheet, scratching down one-word answers to asinine questions. When she's done, she drops the pen on her desk and stretches her arms over her head, then covers her mouth as she yawns – and jumps when Jane chuckles behind her.

"Urgh! You scared me!"

"This is becoming a habit."

"You wish. Didn't think you'd still be there," she groans, getting up. "Trust me when I say you won't catch me a third time."

He grins briefly.

"Where did you think I would be?"

"I don't know. Home? Where any sane person should be at, uh – "

" – nearly nine," he says, shrugging. "You know me, I'll probably spend the night on the couch."

She bites her lip. He smiles, then raises a hand and, palm against her cheek, pulls on her bottom lip with his thumb. She blinks, taken aback by the intimacy of the gesture, the intensity of his gaze. Before she has time to react, he presses a kiss on her other cheek, then lets his hand fall and takes a step back.

"There. No need to be jealous anymore."

She opens her mouth, closes it again, mind blank. He grins and turns away, one hand raised.

"Goodnight, Lisbon!" he calls, disappearing in the dark bullpen.

"What the hell, Jane?" she mutters, when she remembers how vocal chords are supposed to work.

She rolls her eyes, because she doesn't know how else to deal with him. Picking up her bag, she closes the lights and locks the door, taking great care not to look in the direction of his couch – just in case, because she has no desire to glimpse his eyes gleaming like a cat's in the darkness.

" 'No need to be jealous', _my ass_ ," she mutters again, taking the stairs down to the parking lot. "I wasn't even jealous. I _wasn't!_ "

 _It wasn't even the right kind of kiss anyway_ , whispers a small, petty part of her mind.

But that isn't quite right, she thinks later, when she lays in bed – waiting to fall asleep, and knowing sleep won't come for a long time because she can still feel the phantom touch of Jane's thumb on her lip.

It isn't quite right, because his lips left unsaid words on her cheek, and because his eyes on hers felt like a promise. And because no matter where it landed, _this_ kiss held more meaning to him than Annabeth's childish peck.

She tosses and turns for a few moments, but she knows there is no need to ponder it further. Tomorrow they'll both pretend it never happened, and after a few days it'll even seem true. And it's better that way – less distracting, less threatening to this strange status quo they're trying to maintain.

It's better that way.

But –

But maybe one day, when this is over –

When Red John is out of their life for good –

 _Maybe_ then, they'll have a chance to revisit that conversation.

And _maybe_ –

She closes her eyes, burrows herself in the blankets, smiling just slightly.

– _maybe_ then, she'll give him a kiss of her own.

 _Just to see his reaction_.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! :-)**


	3. With Eyes Wide Open (RA-centric, RJxRA)

_**Disclaimer: Rebecca Anderson, Red John and Patrick Jane belong to Bruno Heller. The quotes come**_ _ **of course**_ _ **from episode 2x08 "His Right Red Hand".**_

 **A/N:** I love Jane. In the main cast, he's the character I most identify with. But that interrogation scene in "His Red Right Hand"? The flippancy he displays when he brushes Rebecca's past as irrelevant kills me a little inside, every single time. So I guess this elaborate metaphor is me trying to work through conflicted feelings about this part of the show.

 **Rating:** M to MA (very dark themes, no eroticism)

 **Pairings:** Rebecca Anderson centric, minor Red John/Rebecca Anderson

 **Warnings:** Swearing, drugs and alcohol abuse, self-harm, bullying, graphic child physical and sexual abuse, spousal physical abuse, passive suicidal state and ideation, death and implied murder, probably other hard/dark themes I didn't think to list, and of course everything about Red John and how he manipulates people to his side. _**Read the warnings carefully, please stay safe**_.

* * *

 **With Eyes Wide Open**

Rebecca Anderson is born on a Tuesday morning, with a guileless smile and eyes shut tight.

It doesn't seem like a problem at first.

She learns to walk, and talk, and eat by herself, and to use the potty just like any other child – perhaps a little _late_ , and she wets the bed a long time after giving up the convenient armour provided by her diapers, but the problem resolves itself after a while. Taken in by her shy, quiet, _polite_ manners, few people ever realise those long dark lashes forever shadow her cheeks, never revealing the brightly coloured irises hidden behind her lids.

Rebecca herself doesn't mind. It seems safer somehow. If she doesn't open her eyes, the wind won't blow dirt in them. The sun won't blind her, and shampoo won't ever sting.

She doesn't mind, but others do.

 _Open your eyes!_ orders her father, the angry tension in his knotted muscles exploding outwards through his voice. _Open your eyes!_ he yells, fists banging against walls and tables and flesh, breaking chairs and bones in the same swift punch. _Open your fucking eyes!_

But she doesn't, and instead curls tightly on herself under the couch, in a corner of the bedroom, in the closest cupboard – in any place offering solace from the demons eructing brimstone from her father's mouth, any place protecting her from the monsters expelling fire from her father's fists. She hides until evil leaves them both dry and empty, broken vessels dripping words without meaning – _I'm sorry_ and _It'll never happen again_ and _I love you daddy_ – until she's left alone to wait for the cycle to start again, and again, and again, with no end in sight.

She keeps her eyes closed, because with closed eyes it doesn't matter if she cries – tears stay hidden from the world.

* * *

 _"What's your favourite kind of music?"_

 _"Mister Jane, please. I know your games. You don't care what type of music I like."_

 _"I'm just making conversation."_

 _"Well, you want to know how I could do such terrible things for Red John – "_

 _"Oh, I know that stuff. Unhappy childhood, sexually abused by a close relative, cutting or some other self-abuse, self-medicating, self-loathing, blah blah. Everyone you ever met made you feel_ – _ashamed."_

 _Silence._

 _"Ashamed of that_ – ugly _darkness_ festering _inside you."_

 _Silence._

 _"But he didn't. He made you strong, he made you feel_ proud _of that darkness."_

 _"Yes. He did."_

 _"He gave your life purpose and meaning and, uh –_ love _."_

 _Silence._

 _"You're very much like him, you know. The way you look at people and see right through them. That is just_ spooky _."_

* * *

Rebecca Anderson reaches the age of ten on a rainy Monday, and her eyes remain as closed as ever.

She stopped smiling long ago, guileless or otherwise, and now spends hours alone, tiny fingers feeling their way around the cool, glossy lines of porcelain figurines, around the soft fur of small animals. Those are her sole means of comfort – the only way to escape even temporarily from her bleak, colourless reality.

If she only opened her eyes, she would see the passing seasons. She would enjoy spring's bursts of flowers, summer's wide green leaves, autumn's sprinkles of rain, and winter's sparkling snowflakes. She would see the shiny bows on her birthday presents, and the vivid lights of the Christmas tree.

And sometimes she longs for it, in her most vulnerable moments.

But vulnerability is a dangerous state, and coming back to her senses only takes three words.

 _Open your eyes_ , says the cajoling voice of her brother at night, when all should have gone to sleep. _Open your eyes_ , he repeats, fingers sliding under her clothes, against her skin, between the legs she keeps tightly pressed against one another. _Come on, open them_.

And again, and again, until she isn't sure which part of her he wants open because his words say one thing and his gestures another, because he takes upon himself to break and destroy and tear her apart when she refuses to comply. Speckles of spit hit her cheeks as he laugh and pants above her, and she keeps her eyes as tightly closed as she can because it's the only thing left to cling to, the only part of her body she has left to herself. And she wonders if he's finished for tonight even as he slinks out of her room, because the moment may be done with – for now at least – but it's never really over.

Vulnerability doesn't suit the world she lives in, and keeping her eyes closed is the last defence she can raise for herself.

* * *

 _"I want you to think of this tonight before you go to sleep. You are nothing to him but a useful object. He is not a good man."_

 _"You are so wrong. He is a very good man. He's on a mission of love and enlightenment."_

 _"He tortures and kills women."_

 _"Don't you see? Without death, there is no life. Without darkness, there is no light."_

 _Silence._

 _"Look at you."_

 _"Me?"_

 _"Well, until your wife and your daughter were killed, you were blind_ – _weren't you?"_

 _Silence._

 _"You were living an illusion. But Red John opened your eyes – and now you see the world for what it truly is."_

* * *

The summer before Rebecca Anderson turns fifteen is sunny, hot, and dry. The sunlight is scorching, bathing the whole country in harsh contrasts. Of course, with her eyes closed, she doesn't see any of it – but she hears.

Oh, she hears everything.

She hears the catcalls on the street when she wears sunbathing dresses, and the growling engine of sports cars rushing nearby. She hears the tears and sobs and then the silence as her mother falls, and the whispers of the neighbours when the ambulance takes her away. She hears the chatter of teenagers lounging near the pool, teasing each other light-heartedly about their crushes. She hears the police sirens as they scatter her family to the winds, and the warm, enthusiastic greetings when she steps foot in her new foster home. She hears fireworks at night and the rare mid-afternoon rainfalls, both of them crackling sudden and bright overhead, both of them met with joyous screams and laughter in the streets.

She hears it all – and for the first time, allowed to breathe and sleep alone, she wonders what she might be missing.

If she might be allowed to take part in their celebration.

If there might be more to sight – more to _life_ – than hits in the dark.

 _Open your eyes, sweetie_ , says her new foster mother, voice dipped in spun sugar and honeyed tea. _Open your eyes and make friends_ , the woman adds, _there's nothing to be afraid of_. And she hesitates, uncertain how to let go of the violence and emptiness shaping her insides but desperately wishing to see, to _be seen_ , and her foster mother insists – _you'll never be a part of the world if you keep your eyes closed all the time!_ – pushes at her back until she walks to her peers, secret self hidden and then offered in the cusp of her palms.

The disbelief, the mockery, the taunting they greet her with tastes like brimstone and spit and the end of the world.

The next time someone remarks upon her closed eyelids and tries to entice her with sweet compassion, she turns her head aside. And when they shrug and leave, she stays unseen, unheard, and uncared for – outwardly healing, alabaster skin unbroken, and yet inside bleeding and battered and bruised and utterly alone. Because they don't care if she hurts or smiles, as long as she does it out of sight. They don't care if she screams or stays silent, as long as she does it out of earshot.

They don't really care what happens to her, as long as she doesn't challenge their comfortable conception of the world – of what a victim should be.

By the time one more year passes, she has grown secure in the darkness of her inner world – and no matter who tries to convince her otherwise, she keeps her eyes _closed, closed, closed_.

* * *

 _"How did you first meet him?"_

 _"I'm not telling you anything about him."_

 _"You will. You'll wake up one day, horrified of what you've done, and you will tell me everything."_

 _"No, never. I love Red John, and he loves me. And I will never betray that trust."_

 _"One day – "_

 _"But I will tell you that I like all kinds of music, especially Country. And I have a cat named Rex. And I collect porcelain frogs. Don't ask me why – it's just a quirk, really."_

* * *

Rebecca Anderson turns twenty-four on an unremarkable Friday and it feels like a fluke.

Eyes shut so tight they hurt, she waits for the end. It seems unreasonable that a life so empty, so devoid of everything that would make it worth fighting for, must be allowed to go on for so long. Where she used to find comfort and relief in the clean lines of porcelain figurines, in the softness of sleek furs, there is nothing left but a wide chasm – one she stands on the very edge of, waiting for the abyss to claim tribute.

Sometimes she fears the black hole inside her chest might devour the world if she only allows it a taste of the light.

Overwhelmed with self-loathing, she is drowning on dry earth, surrounded with oxygen she never learned how to breathe. _Love, happiness_ _, life_ are words she barely remembers the meaning of, words she knows on a cognitive level but never experienced herself. Sometimes she thinks she can almost understand them – when asleep, or drunk, or high on anything she can get her hands on. When allowed to forget for a little while just how bleak, meaningless, colourless reality with closed eyes is.

It never occurs to her that shutting out the world might be the source of her problems. That opening her eyes might allow her to find relief outside of self-destruction.

How could it?

Slowly, without resources, she gives up – learns to chase serenity rather than fulfilment.

 _Balance_ , she says out loud.

 _Stillness_ , she screams inside.

Some days, when peace almost feels in reach of her fingertips, she lifts her face towards the sun, lets it warm her skin in anticipation of the final night – lets its brightness turn the view from her inner eyelids from pitch black to a deep blood red, ephemeral respite to cling to until she is finally allowed to rest.

Other times, when peace slides out of reach and feels like an unintelligible, abstract concept, she opens gashes on her arms – lets the pain soothe and embrace her like nothing else ever did, hot blood dripping over her skin, warming her when all other sources of heat are gone.

She meets him on the coldest day of the year.

His presence blazes radiant and pure right from the start – a sharp contrast with her own shameful, festering self. So much that she feels an urge to hide, for she doesn't even need open eyes to see how intensely he shines. But unlike others, he doesn't appear bothered by the shadows she casts around herself.

Unlike others, he seeks her out, then goes out of his way to make her feel _safe_.

He notices her closed eyes right away of course, but never asks about them. He treats it as a normal occurrence. Something she cannot help. Something she cannot change. But he talks to her, whispers in her ear, says things she has no choice but to listen to. Things like _if only you could see how dazzling this day is_ and _it's such a shame, how you're missing out on those beautiful colours_ and _I so wish you could see all that this universe has to offer_.

Things like _if only your eyes were open, I could show you another way to live_.

It makes her _want_ – not to please others but for _herself_ , and that makes all the difference in the world.

She opens her eyes for the first time under his guidance, after sunset, and as she marvels over light and colours and the infinity of wide, open spaces – and him, she marvels over _him_ , she always will from now on – she learns two valuable lessons:

 _The world belongs to those who see beyond its sweet, enticing illusions._

and

 _There is no reason to be afraid of the night, especially not when it lives inside you._

The gashes on her arms heal as she opens them on others, and the darkness in her soul makes the whole world seem this much brighter.

* * *

 _"I do have one question before you go, Rebecca. After you took Carter Peak's body and all the DNA samples, why did Red John have you attack Bosco's team? There was really no need. The evidence was destroyed."_

 _"You know why."_

 _"No."_

 _"Oh, you don't? Red John thought you'd understand. I got rid of Bosco and his team so that you could have the case back. Red John misses you. And – it's what you wanted, too. Isn't it?"_

 _Silence._

 _Silence._

 _"We're done here."_

* * *

 _I guess I'll see you around_ , she says as they take her out of the interrogation room, knowing that she won't.

They hold her arms firmly on each side, as if she had any means of escape. In a sense, she is flattered – the handcuffs and the chains and the guards, men towering over her and yet cowering as if she could somehow kill them with a glance. All of them unaware that they should in fact be guarding her against one of their own.

They'll learn.

Her life was forfeited the moment she got caught, she was always aware of it – all of his closest friends know how these things work. The only remaining unknown is the face and shape death will borrow when the time comes. But no matter the way it does, she will welcome it with eager, open arms, if only because it might finally allow her to grasp this elusive peace she has been chasing for so long.

She isn't afraid.

Why should she?

Death was always a part of her, and there is no reason to fear the night.

Her eyes are wide and curious, shining with something like innocence as they bring her down the hallway to the elevator – drinking in the golden light of sunset, the glass and red textured walls, the tan uniforms of the guards, the contrasting shades of their skin. After all those years trapped inside herself, the outside world unfolding before her eyes will never cease to be a miracle. Are those bricks still as smooth as they look like, is that carpet still as rough? She wishes she could touch as well, steal one last memory from this lively bullpen before she is brought to her grave.

For a split second she tenses when the elevator doors close on her, a flash of longing shaking her resolve. Then she breathes deeply, just as he taught her to when fear tries to take hold, and settles the earthquake inside.

No.

She will not break.

When he appears in the hallway, walking with a brisk pace towards her, she almost gasps – she never expected that he would bring her this last gift _himself_. But here he is, lips quirking up briefly, eyes shining with the same radical acceptance he never ceased to shower her with, and – oh, perhaps she didn't fail her mission after all.

Perhaps so many years of loyalty do earn her loyalty in return.

She smiles then, bright and soft and genuine – because she spent the last hour hearing _you should close your eyes, he doesn't care about you_ and _just close your eyes, you are nothing but an object to him_ and _you will talk to me in the end, better close your eyes now_ , but she kept her mouth shut, kept her chin high, kept trusting him, and now _he's here_ and she knew she was right to believe in him.

She _knew_.

So she keeps her eyes open as he brings a kiss of darkness to her doorstep, as he gives her peace through a brief caress on her hand. She keeps her eyes open as fire climbs up her nerve endings and she stumbles. Pain bubbles froth at her mouth, and it doesn't matter if she cannot stay standing in her last moments. As long as she sees the world as it truly is, it doesn't matter.

Even as the night falls for the last time.

 _It doesn't matter._

Rebecca Anderson dies on a Thursday evening, with a guileless smile and eyes wide open.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading.**


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